


chk chk boom

by notictus



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Being Turned on by Violence Causes Inconvenient Erection, Coming In Pants, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Gunplay, M/M, Terrible Attempts At Flirting Are Also Real Murder Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 09:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notictus/pseuds/notictus
Summary: “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just—”“It’s a gun,” John says quickly.
Relationships: Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77
Collections: Osmosis Exchange





	chk chk boom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

> This was written for the Osmosis Exchange, which means that I haven't seen the film(s), the trailer, nor have I read a wiki. I pretty much just based this on other fic I've read for this fandom. Let me know how close I got! Constructive criticism is absolutely welcome.

It’s dark by the time Marcus returns to his hotel suite.

Marcus forgoes his usual security checks in favour of heading to the drinks cart, tossing his jacket on the bed as he goes. There’s a bottle of scotch that’s been calling his name, and Marcus approaches it with the same single-minded determination he applies to everything else.

He’s just on the point of reaching for one of the crystal tumblers when he feels something press into the small of his back.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just—”

“It’s a gun,” John says quickly.

Marcus’s lips twist into a smile. “That’s how it is, then? Not even a ‘hello’?”

“Hello,” John says, pressing the muzzle more firmly into Marcus’s back.

Marcus sighs. John Wick showing up in his hotel suite is the last thing he needs right now. It’s been a long day and a longer week, and the only thing he’s done since arriving in Moscow is chase leads. It’s been all work and no play, and what’s worse is that the payoff hasn’t even been worth it. He’s no closer to his target than when he first arrived, and he’s in no mood to entertain anyone’s homicidal tendencies—least of all John’s. All he wants is a stiff drink, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to deny himself that.

So he doesn’t.

Marcus picks up the ice tongs and drops a cube of ice into the tumbler, his movements precise and unhurried. “I’d offer you one, but it seems that your hands are full.”

John’s response comes in the form of a harsh exhale on the back of Marcus’s neck. Armed _and _angry. This evening just keeps getting better and better.

“Unless you’d prefer to liberate yourself of your gun?” Marcus adds. He holds the bottle of scotch up to the light, examining the label, then pours a generous serving into the glass.

“What are you doing in St Petersburg?” John’s question is punctuated by the click of the safety coming off, as if that’s supposed to intimidate him. Kids these days.

“Same thing as you, I suppose.”

“Ivanov is mine.”

Marcus carefully places the lid back on the scotch and sets the bottle down on the cart. Taking his glass in hand, he swirls the liquid couple of times and turns so he and John are face to face.

“Not if I get to him first.”

It happens in an instant: Marcus raises his glass, tilting it towards John in a mockery of a toast, and the very second he brings it to his lips, John bats it out of his hand. The glass goes flying, soaring through the air in a wide arc, liquid amber spilling over the expensive carpet. A perfect stillness falls over the room as both men stare at the spilled drink, Marcus blinking slowly as he tries to process what just happened.

But not for long.

“You fucker.” Marcus charges at John, tackling by the waist and running him into the wall. Decades of special ops training are forgotten in favour of brawl tactics as Marcus succumbs to the overwhelming urge to beat the shit out of John. John hesitates for one crucial second, no doubt taken aback by his underhanded tactics and general lack of finesse. That single second is all Marcus needs to pin him against the wall and get him in a choke hold.

“Do you have any idea the of the kind of week I’ve had?” Marcus has one arm braced across John’s throat, cutting of his air. The other has found its way to his hand, the one that’s holding the gun. Marcus pushes his thumb into a pressure point in John’s wrist and John’s forced to release the pistol, his fingers spasming.

“Your week is not my concern,” John grits out. He’s slowly going red, and Marcus knows that if he keeps this up, John will be unconscious and on the floor within a minute. It’s not an unappealing thought.

“I know you’re just following orders like a good little soldier, so I’m going to say this as clearly as possible.” Marcus releases John’s hand and draws his own pistol from his shoulder holster, pressing the muzzle under John’s eye. “Stay out of my way, John. Or else this gun is going to be the last thing you ever see.”

John lets out a stuttered breath. This close, Marcus can see the way John’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, his body arching unconsciously against Marcus’s and _oh,_ that’s an interesting new development.

“Wow,” Marcus says, licking his lips. Judging from the way John tracks the movement, John knows that he knows. “I’ll ask you again: is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to—”

“Shut up,” John grits out, his face colouring even more. Marcus decides to let up the pressure on his airway a little; he’d much prefer for John to be conscious for this next part.

“Does Winston know you have a hardon for violence? I imagine it makes you quite a liability in the field.”

John glares daggers at him. In this position, pinned as he is, it’s still possible for him to escape. But with the way John’s pressing against him, Marcus is starting to wonder if he even wants to.

“Or is it just me?” Marcus asks softly. He trails the muzzle of the gun down the open collar of John’s shirt, then over his pecs, right where his heart is.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John bites out.

“Hmm, I’m going to say it’s a bit of both,” he says, circling John’s nipple with the tip of the gun. Marcus can see John react even through two layers of fabric, and the gasp he lets out is only confirmation. Marcus shifts so his thigh’s between John’s legs, and yeah, John’s definitely hard, the outline of his cock clearly visible through his slacks.

“Do you do this with all your marks?” Marcus asks, trailing the gun lower. “Do you let them fuck you with your own gun before you blow their heads off?”

“If you so much as think about fucking me with that, then that’s exactly how you’re going to end up.” John’s voice is all venom, but his body betrays him; he’s clearly unable to stop himself from canting his hips as Marcus draws the gun lower.

“Promises, promises,” Marcus says, running the gun between John’s legs. John shudders, his mouth falling open on a gasp. “I’ve got you in a one-armed pin, easy enough to break. Your gun is on the floor next to your right foot. There are a hundred ways you could put a stop to this. But you’re not going to”—Marcus leans in so there’s only a hair’s breadth between their lips—“because you don’t _want_ to.”

John growls and surges forwards. With Marcus’s arm braced against John’s throat and his gun between John’s legs, John can barely move. But Marcus is still close enough for John to press their lips together and fuck his tongue into Marcus’s mouth. It’s too vicious to be called a kiss, especially given the way John bites at Marcus’s lips as if he wants to be the one to draw first blood.

“Motherfu—”

Marcus draws back at the first spark of pain, then clocks John across the mouth with the butt of his gun. John rolls with the blow just as he was trained, but when he pulls back his lip is split and stained red with blood.

“Did you just fucking bite me?” Marcus doesn’t wait for a response, he just takes the gun and presses the muzzle against John’s lips, pushing hard until his jaw is forced open.

“Suck.” Marcus’s tone is callous. He exerts even more pressure and John has no choice but to take the barrel deeper into his mouth, his throat desperately working around the muzzle.

“If you’re going to play dirty then I’ll have to keep you like this,” he says and John groans at that, a guttural sound from deep in his throat. Marcus begins to slide the gun in and out of John’s mouth in a crude mockery of a blow job, and John—John knows his place in this. Knows to form his lips into a perfect circle around the barrel, knows to hollow his cheeks _just _so. The sight makes Marcus’s dick twitch, and for a second he can’t help but entertain the fantasy of shoving John to his knees and replacing his gun with his cock.

“I bet you could come just like this. Sucking on my gun, wishing it was my dick.”

John closes his eyes. He’s unable to meet Marcus’s gaze, as if the humiliation is too much for him to bare.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Marcus continues as he presses the gun in further. “Rutting against my thigh like a bitch in heat.”

John makes a distressed sound, and Marcus thinks he understands.

“No, then? Maybe this is what you need.”

Marcus slowly withdraws the gun from his mouth, enraptured by the way John’s lips close around the muzzle as if he doesn’t want to let it go. John’s lips are shiny with spit and blood, and Marcus kisses him, sucking his lower lip into his mouth as he runs the gun lower and lower, all the way down John’s body.

“This is what you need,” he whispers against John’s lips as he presses the barrel of the gun against his dick. John’s eyes are full of surrender, his lips forming the word _yes_ even as the sound gets caught in his throat. Marcus runs the barrel along John’s erection, the smooth metal gliding easily over the expensive fabric of his slacks. John’s hips are twitching with every press, desperately trying to seek out more friction, and Marcus is more than happy to let him work for it.

John’s groaning now, tiny gasps accompanying each twitch of his hips, begging with his eyes as though speech is beyond him. Marcus knows that he’s close, knows that he just needs that something extra to push him over the edge, so in leans in close to whisper in John’s ear—

“You know the safety’s off, right?”

John groans at that, loud and full-throated. The gun is trapped between their bodies and John continues to grind against it, his hips working against Marcus’s thigh as his orgasm hits him hard. He shudders against Marcus, full body tremors that have him clinging to Marcus for support, close enough for Marcus to hear all the wretched moans that escape his lips.

John goes boneless the second the pleasure begins to dissipate, to the point that Marcus’s ever-present arm against his throat is the only thing keeping him upright and pinned to the wall. When Marcus finally removes it, John falls into a crumpled heap on the floor. He looks up at Marcus with wide eyes, and Marcus’s gaze lingers on his blood-slick mouth, on the dishevelled state of his suit, and feels something like satisfaction coil deep in his gut.

“Well that was interesting,” Marcus says lightly. He holsters his gun, watching John’s eyes track the movement. Then he slowly and deliberately turns his back on John.

“I hope you know what this means,” Marcus says, returning to the drinks cart. He selects a tumbler and adds a single ice cube, his deft, precise movements a sharp counterpoint to their animalistic behaviour of before.

Marcus waits for a response and is met only by the sound of John’s harsh breathing. “Please don’t make me spell it out for you,” Marcus adds, a little impatiently. He really is getting too old for this shit.

“The job is off,” John says finally. “I will return to the States.”

Marcus makes an affirmative noise as he pours scotch into the glass. “And Ivanov?”

John’s voice is no less breathless when he answers. “Ivanov is yours.”

Marcus smiles to himself as he raises his glass to his lips, finally taking a sip of his well-earned drink. “Glad we agree.”

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
